


Pygmalion

by Ophelia_Raine



Series: Pygmalion [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Explicit Language, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Implied Sexual Content, Love Poems, Pygmalion, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12784920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: A retelling ofPygmalion, and how our favourite sculptor fell in love with his own creation.





	Pygmalion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ocularis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocularis/gifts), [apocketfulofwry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/gifts).



> For ocularis, for teaching me something new today. And for apocketfulofwry, for always amusing me. xx

Once,  
Not very long ago,  
There lived a man, a sculpting pro  
Who specialised in women.  
Not that he’d ever sculpted one;  
He just liked them for fucks and fun  
And kept his swimmers swimmin’.

His name was Petyr, last name Bae.  
The man who loved to roll in hay  
Under the Grecian sky.  
He crafted statues for a living  
Then went home to keep on sinning  
Then waved them goodbye.

Grey eyes with green  
A Van Dyke beard  
(They all thought that a little weird)  
With salt and pepper hair.  
A handsome cad, a charming rake  
He gave as good as he would take  
For no one else he’d care.

He led a charmed and selfish life  
And never thought to take a wife.  
Footloose and fancy-free.  
A gift for crafting statues so  
They looked most life-like, meant also  
He charged extortionately.

With tendencies like Nabokov,  
He came into possession of  
A chunk of ivory, pure  
And thought, at once, a challenge sweet.  
In doing so, his two loves meet  
And boredom he could cure.

Not liking work repetitive,  
(He liked to be competitive),  
He set himself a goal:  
To sculpt the sweetest maiden fair;  
Create in her a kind of lair  
To steal both heart and soul.

She would be tall.  
She would be slim.  
She would inspire many-a hymn.  
He’ll make her naked too and rather young.  
Her ass be high.  
Her breasts be full.  
(He could be such a lecherous tool.)  
Her lips would part so he could see her tongue.

Her hair would flow.  
Her cheeks could blush.  
Imagine how he’d make her flush!  
The curve of buttock made to be adored.  
And finally, the cake, the prize...  
The part of her that makes men rise:  
A cunt with folds that begged to be explored.

And so he started,  
Slow at first.  
And then, like confetti, it burst  
One day and he was fully in the zone.  
He slaved away, from dawn to dusk.  
“Where’s Peter Bae?” the maids would ask.  
The company he kept was just his own

And that of his new love.  
You see,  
He’d fallen hard for ivory.  
He named her Sansa and he worshipped her.  
The more he chipped, the more he touched,  
The more he felt his heart she clutched.  
And time and tide swept on in one sweet blur.

They chatted long into the night.  
Her eyes were kind and sweet and bright.  
She listened well and took his burdens on.  
And when he finished, he could cry  
For she was perfect for this guy.  
And yet her lack of life made him forlorn.

 _Aphrodisia_ came one day:  
The festival where lovers pray  
And worship hard by bonking one another.  
He wandered in, Love’s sickest fan.  
He wasn’t a religious man  
And yet he felt his soul was torn asunder.

He saw the off'rings small and mighty  
Made to goddess Aphrodite  
And he thought, “Won’t hurt to give a whirl."  
He shuffled up, heart now blown wide  
And wished so hard she’d grant a bride  
“The living likeness of my ivory girl."

And then he went back home alone.  
But lo, there chatting on the phone  
A goddess, sweet but large.  
“So sorry to give you a fright.  
Some Mofos call me Afro-dite  
But you can call me Marge.

“I heard your plea, I saw your heart.  
Damn, Boy! You sure can play the part  
Of schmitten kitten boo.  
And even though your past is bad,  
I love that Sansa made you sad  
And so I give her… you.”

Then Margey disappeared, went poof.  
He checked the fireplace, the roof  
But things were back to norm.  
Or… were they? He walked up to Sans  
And placed upon her face his hands  
And kissed her.  
She was warm.

“Darling,” she murmured to his lips  
And placed her hands upon his hips  
And kissed him deep and long.  
He felt a tenting in his toga.  
Heard her whisper, "I know yoga.”  
That was it for schlong.

I’ll skip along this naughty part.  
I’m sure you know, deep in your heart  
How else they spent their hours, their weeks, their life.  
And so I’ll close this little rhyme.  
I want to thank you for the time  
I told you how our Petyr found his wife.


End file.
